


Time to Leave the Capsule if You Dare

by Loz



Series: Time to Leave the Capsule if You Dare [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Angst and Humor, Astronauts, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Set in the future, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, pop culture references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1961055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his spacecraft suffers catastrophic damage during a mission, Stiles searches for a way home, while Scott is left wondering if Stiles will make it back to earth alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time to Leave the Capsule if You Dare

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Sciles Reversebang](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sciles_reversebang/profile), based on [tailoredshirt](http://tailoredshirt.tumblr.com)'s [stunning gifset](http://tailoredshirt.tumblr.com/post/92106745047/astronaut-au-when-his-spacecraft-suffers). Please go and click the loveheart, it's incredible.
> 
> This fic wouldn't exist if it weren't for the wonderful [Brook](https://twitter.com/annoyingbrook) and [Snoopypez](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snoopypez). They beta-read, hand-held and Ameri-picked and the story is immeasurably better for it. Thank you so much, you two. 
> 
> This story contains many references to real and imagined songs/movies/tv shows about space. You might want to listen to David Bowie’s [‘Space Oddity’](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cYMCLz5PQVw), from which the title was taken.

Wind is battering against the windows, rattling the panes. It’s nasty out there right now, rain coming down like sheets of glass and an occasional flash of lightning that rends the sky in two. It makes him feel small, makes him all too aware that he’s a speck of dust in relation to the universe. Seems fitting.

Ideally he’d be asleep, but he’s been up half the night preparing for his new roommate. That’s the kind of thing that happens when you inherit a house on Lazywood Lane; at some point NASA calls you up and begs you to take in their star astronaut, one of the first of their new space shuttle program. He could have said no, probably. It was a request rather than an order. But he was curious and he thinks he understands the reason behind it, that sense of honoring the past. It’s a kind of nostalgia, but it’s about tradition as well, about preserving what was once great. 

Plus, he needs the money. 

There’s a crash and a bang outside and then furious knocking. Scott sucks in a deep breath, sets his shoulders and opens the door. 

“Stiles?”

*

After the explosion, he finds it hard to breathe. He knows, logically, that he’s as safe as he can be, back inside the shuttle. But Isaac’s gone and the suit won’t come off, and he’s trying not to kick too hard because he knows he’ll injure himself, damage something, but he can’t stop because he needs to get out of this, he needs to escape, he needs…

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates on his heartbeat, on making it go slower. It isn’t working, he can’t do anything right, he’s such a fuck-up, he’s so stupid, he’s going to die up here, alone in a tin can and the only people who’ll care are his dad, Lydia, and maybe, if he’s lucky, Scott.

Scott. Would he have heard about the debris? The collision? Would he be watching it on the news, expression adorably scrunched up? No, he’d probably look more worried, wouldn’t he? He’d swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing, slowly blink. He’d twist his hands together, rest his forehead on his arms and lean down in his seat.

His heartbeat begins to slow incrementally. His chest loosens. Stiles manages to take his suit off piece by piece, stomach slowly unknotting. It’s okay. He’s okay. He needs to survey the damage, see what he can salvage, check in with Houston. He’s been training for this almost his whole life. Things go wrong, mistakes are made, but everything’s fixable. He tells himself this mantra over and over. 

*

Stiles isn’t exactly what he’d been expecting. Perhaps it was wrong for him to stereotype, but Scott hadn’t thought that someone with a Masters degree in Aeronautics Engineering would forget that it’s not cool to drink directly from the carton and leave half-empty bags of chips lying on every surface in the house. 

Scott has Stiles to thank for thinking in terms of ‘cool’; he loves retro stuff, including slang, and he’s dragging Scott into feeling the same. Scott frequently finds himself researching vintage, antiquated music and holovision, reading stories set in the 20th Century.

Scott wouldn’t go so far as to say that Stiles is a slob; his bed’s always made with military precision and he helps out with household chores, but he does seem to forget that he hasn’t known Scott that long and he takes all kinds of liberties. He’s not exactly polite, but he is always curious, and Scott never knows when he’s going to be home, which is starting to be a problem. 

It’s a problem because he finds himself constantly wondering if it’ll be soon, if Stiles will rock up and drag him from his dreary life with another story about a flight simulation gone wrong, or getting caught by his CO re-enacting the opening sequence from _Barbarella_ (“It’s iconic, I had to try. And I can’t be shy about people seeing my naked butt when I’m gonna be in close quarters with Lahey and Reyes for ten days.”) Scott had wanted to say that he didn’t think anyone would ever complain about seeing Stiles’ naked butt, but he doesn’t know where the line is yet. Stiles has offered to make out with him on two different occasions in recent memory, but he didn’t seem serious. So Scott keeps those thoughts to himself. It’s safer that way. 

It’s a problem because Stiles never looks bored with Scott’s own recounts, despite the fact nursing is nowhere near as fascinating as traveling into space. He asks questions and makes pointed comments, and laughs at the right times. Scott’s always had a weakness for people who shower him with positive attention; he didn’t get a lot when he was growing up, could really only count on his mom caring. Stiles cares --- maybe sometimes a little too much --- but Scott likes that. 

Scott’s shifts don’t always coincide with Stiles’, so they aren’t frequently alone together, but when they are it’s always good. Stiles has insisted they marathon old school sci-fi so they’re watching _Buck Rogers in the 25th Century_ , the original _Star Trek_ , _Doctor Who_ and _Lost in Space_ , even though none of them are available on holofile and they have to resort to Blu-ray. Stiles laughs about the fact they’re so dated they’re prehistoric, but Scott likes them less ironically. There are interesting stories about the nature of morality that don’t always revel in shades of gray and it’s usually easy to tell who the heroes and villains are. 

Stiles doesn’t really mock him for that, but he does lightly tease. Stiles has turned that into an artform. 

*

No one can hear him. He talks, but his words don’t go any further than the cabin. His voice has gotten hoarse from all his one-sided discussion. 

“I’m a leaf on the wind,” he says.

“Space, the final frontier,” he murmurs.

“A light year doesn’t sound like it’d be long,” he hazards.

“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for,” he intones smoothly. 

“Danger, Will Robinson,” said all in a robotic monotone.

And a sigh; “The stars are like beacons that guide me home.”

The game is to make as many references as possible without repeating a show, movie or franchise. He’s been going for a long time. Perhaps he should be ashamed, but sitting snuggled up on Scott’s couch has been the best part of the last half-year and he doesn’t regret a second. 

Before Houston, he’d thought his life would suddenly become glamorous and exciting, but it had transpired that working for NASA in Houston wasn’t any different from working for NASA in San Francisco. The difference came in him no longer caring about glamorous and exciting, because he had someone share his down time with, someone who laughed at his jokes and didn’t flinch away from him. 

He tries not to think about it.

Stiles talks and like before, like when he was young and his dad was always working, no one listens.

 

*

The nights he’s home, Scott cooks dinner; something simple, something that’ll improve when it’s left over. Sometimes, like tonight, Stiles arrives halfway through and eats his portion with gusto. 

“Praise me,” Stiles says, pointing at his chest and doing a whole body roll that should be some kind of illegal. 

“Why?” Scott asks, because he may not know Stiles well yet, but he knows this. Stiles doesn’t only want the praise, he wants the interrogation.

“Because it turns out I’m a hell of a sprinter. Long distance? No. I both suck and blow. But gimme a 100 metre mark and apparently I fly.”

Scott resolutely doesn’t blush at Stiles’ phrasing. “How are you only now finding this out?”

“I’ve never exactly had to run before. I’ve always tripped on treadmills, fallen over during drills. Turns out, keep me upright and I rocket.”

“That’s a dollar for the jar.”

“What? No! That wasn’t a pun.”

“Yeah, it really was. Pay up.”

“You dictator,” Stiles says with a grizzle, then grins, blinding. “I’ll add another dollar to the jar for that one.”

Scott hopes his returning smile doesn’t look too fond. He closely examines his pot of chili. Stiles slinks up close to his side, hot like the stove, grabbing a spoon and having a taste. He makes a sinful noise of appreciation.

“So, dinner is amazing, but we should celebrate. Hit the town, drink our capacity in alcoholic beverages.”

“Are you allowed to drink?”

“I have three days off, Scotty. Three whole days of being my own man. Hell yes I’m allowed.”

“All right. We’re eating first, though. I’m not subjecting myself to a you who’s drunk on an empty stomach. I’m not a masochist, no matter how many times you claim I am.”

“You eat grapefruit. For fun.”

“It’s good for me, unlike you. Are you gonna shut up and eat, or do I have to hide your wallet again?”

Stiles nudges him, eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ll be good, promise.”

Scott suspects that’s the furthest from the truth Stiles has ever gotten. 

The bar they go to has seen better days, but it’s clean and has decent beer. There’s a jukebox in the corner, so old it plays mp3s, and Scott immediately scans his QR code to pay for a dozen tracks. Soon Elton John’s ‘Rocket Man’ plays, eliciting a groan from nearby patrons and a dramatic mimed reimagining from Stiles. Scott drinks until he’s encased in warm lassitude, giggling to himself as Stiles dances to a song he put on, something high-pitched and rock and roll. 

Stiles reaches forward, grabs hold of his hands and forces him to his feet. He proceeds to dance around Scott, occasionally bumping with his hip, or holding onto his sides and encouraging him to grind. Scott doesn’t protest, but he’s never had much rhythm, so he doesn’t attempt his own moves. He shuffles from foot to foot, tries not to go googly-eyed at Stiles as he leans close and then far away again, undulating his body like his energy’s escaping and he has to roll it back.

Stack-o-matic Storage’s ‘In the Far Starlight’ is playing and it’s been _years_ since Scott danced to it, he can’t help but try to move along with the bass.

“Have you ever noticed that almost all songs about space are metaphors?” Stiles asks, voice pitched loud.

The metaphor contained in this song is sex. It’s not even a little subtle that it’s about getting down and nasty. There’s a whole rap about a shuttle punching through the Earth’s atmosphere. Scott doesn’t openly acknowledge that, though, because he can already picture Stiles’ expression and it’s doing terrible things to his heart.

“The same’s true of movies and TV shows, right? Aliens are stand-ins for minority groups. So space isn’t really the final frontier, it’s an analogy for Earth.”

“Perhaps I’ll climb into the shuttle, ready to ride, and suddenly be told space doesn’t really exist. We’re all in a gigantic snowglobe.”

“What would you do?”

Stiles edges in close, wraps a hand around the back of Scott’s neck to anchor himself. He whispers, raspy and soft in Scott’s ear. “I’d tell the world, of course. But shhhh, no one but you can know until then. If I go missing, I’ll know who to blame.”

Scott pats Stiles’ back. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

*

Stiles stares out into the wide black beyond and thinks about the fact he can’t get freaking ‘Star Trekkin’ out of his head. It’s so wrong that he’s stuck with a parody from his grandfather’s time. It’s been about an hour and all he can hear is, “It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it, not as we know it, not as we know it… Captain.” Why did he accept Scott’s playlist? Maybe because he was so touched Scott created one for him. Maybe because no one had ever done that before and it made him feel like he was someone. And half the songs are actually good and he loves singing along, but this one is the worst. It’s infectious and insidious and it’s a welcome distraction, realistically. Better to be annoyed over an earworm than devastated over his situation.

He’s going to have to go out there again. He’s going to have to go out and try to fix the communications array. He’s been psyching himself up for the past fifteen minutes. He knows how to do it, he knows what he needs, he just --- he keeps thinking about the look in Isaac’s eyes as he floated out of reach. Keeps imagining that was him. At least here he’s contained. It’s a small consolation, but it is one nonetheless. 

He’d never been scared for his life before this day. He’d worried incessantly about other people’s; his mom’s up until she had passed away and was no longer in pain and confusion, his dad’s --- which he’s still worried sick over. But he’d always semi-assumed he was invincible. 

Mortality is a cruel sort of gift. The more it gives, the more it takes away.

*

They’re drooling over Seven of Nine when Stiles says, “Sometimes I don’t know whether I wanna fuck her or be her.”

Scott snorts, grabbing another handful of popcorn. “We could probably make you a suit. My mom’s got a sewing machine she’s never used. You press a button and it does everything for you.”

“I was referring more to her ending up with Chakotay.”

“Okay, first of all, you’re spoiling it again. What part of ‘I’ve seen lots of other _Star Trek_ shows, but I’ve never seen _Voyager_ ever before’ don’t you understand? And second, wow, really? But I thought he was in love with Janeway?” Scott replies, dusting his hand off on his jeans. Stiles stares at him wide-eyed and Scott starts to think this could have been a test. “Wait… was this not the right response?”

“It was,” Stiles says, muted in a way he hasn’t been since they first met. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“The spoilers are annoying, but I think if they build up Chakotay and Seven convincingly, I’ll be fine. They’d be hot together.”

Stiles digs his hand into Scott’s popcorn bowl and scoops half of it out. “Are you being deliberately obtuse right now?”

Scott smiles indulgently. “Yeah, I am. No, it doesn’t bother me. Dude, do I seem like I’m that small-minded? I may be old-fashioned, but you’re worse when it comes to holding onto antiquated notions. You’re allowed to fantasy fuck whoever you want. Especially since you don’t seem to be getting any in real life.”

“You’re kind of an asshole. I can’t believe I never saw that before,” Stiles says wonderingly. He smacks Scott on the chest. “It’s my new favorite trait.”

Scott bats away his other hand as it quests for more of his popcorn and stuffs his own mouth full. He thinks this was possibly the perfect time to say, “Oh, hey, me too, girls _and_ boys? Boss as hell, am I right?!” but he chickened out and he can’t even say why. 

*

“Don’t panic!”

He takes a breath in, a breath out, slow as he can handle. He’s powerfully reminded that in space no one can hear you scream. But he’d hear it. The sound would reverberate within his helmet, inside his head. 

He can do this. He’s done it before. Admittedly, he wasn’t in space at the time. He hadn’t witnessed the deaths of his crew. He hadn’t been half-way to a panic attack and scared out of his mind. But he’s done it. Hell, he’s designed his own communications array, was going to create a prototype out of second hand parts and glitter glue. 

The thing training doesn’t successfully do is recreate the emotional reality of these situations. The truth is, you may have a Masters degree, you may have written award-winning articles, but if you can’t keep your head in straitened circumstances, you’re screwed. It doesn’t matter how many simulations or role plays you’ve been through, until it happens for real you don’t know how you’ll react. 

He’s always figured he’d be too focused to worry. He’d be totally consumed with following protocol and checking and rechecking his work. And he wasn’t far off in thinking this. About 80% of him is focused on the task at hand. It’s only the rest that’s freaking the hell out. He’s keenly aware that he could make things worse. He doesn’t know how, but he could. It has him working hard not to retch. 

One of the transponders is damaged, cracked down the middle. He thinks he might be able to rig a workaround. He’s brought enough materials to work with, but he isn’t sure how long it’ll take. Stiles rolls his head around as much as he can, pushes his shoulders back in his suit, trying to stretch out his muscles, remind himself he’s got a mission, a purpose. He resolutely doesn’t look around him, because he knows he’ll hyperventilate again.

When everything looks operational he walks the slow, steady path back into the shuttle. The stars in the distance glitter with promise and he thinks maybe. Maybe everything will be okay.

*

Stiles is mopping the floor humming to the tune of an old jazz standard, ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, when he suddenly turns around and pins Scott with a stare. Scott can’t look away quickly enough, so it’s probably obvious he was staring at the shift of muscles under his shirt. 

“Why did you agree to have a housemate forced upon you?”

Scott doesn’t choke on his coffee, but it’s a close-run thing. “Sorry?”

“This was optional? NASA asked Mrs Jenkins next door and the Glenns down the street. They vehemently refused. I was told there were cuss words. But you said yes. Why?”

Scott shrugs. He doesn’t have an answer to that. Not one he’d share, anyway. When it comes down to it, it was probably equal parts curiosity and loneliness. 

“My Great, Great Uncle worked for NASA. He was one of the technicians on a couple of the Discovery missions. I guess I kind of felt like I’d be preserving his legacy? I don’t know, it’s stupid.”

Scott gets up and tiptoes over to the sink to place his empty mug. He brushes by Stiles on the way --- a selfish gesture, but he wants the contact, craves it.

“No, it isn’t. It’s awesome. And because it’s awesome, I’m not gonna murderize you for ruining my pristine floor.” He reaches over and cuffs Scott around the head. His hand lingers and Scott doesn’t press his palm over it, but he thinks about it, thinks about entwining their fingers. 

“I always wanted to be an astronaut, you know?” Stiles continues. “I was eight when I read that we shut down the space shuttle program half a century ago. I was so betrayed. I yelled at my teacher – ‘why does everyone act like space travel’s a thing? It isn’t a thing, it’s nothing at all’. I thought that was it, that was the end of my dream, I’d never get my chance. I didn’t come out of my room for days. But my dad reminded me of the International Space Station, and then we looked up private, vanity spaceflights, and even if I could never afford spaceflight as a holiday-maker, maybe I could become a pilot. I had hope again. My reaction when NASA was allowed the budget for manned spaceflight again? Dude, you haven’t seen me at my worst, because that was it.”

“I never dreamed as big as you. I always wanted to be a nurse. Or a vet. My feet firmly on the ground.”

Stiles twists his lips and Scott can’t decipher his expression. “I wouldn’t knock that if I were you. I think your dream is ultimately altruistic in comparison to mine. You want to serve others. I wanna serve myself.”

“That’s not true,” Scott says. “There’s important research conducted in space, isn’t there? And how could anyone do that without a pilot? Let alone one who doubles as an engineer. Plus, you think my job doesn’t serve me? I can get all the tongue depressors I could ever need, for free.”

“When you put it like that…” Stiles says, slowly, like he’s turning Scott’s words over in his mind, but jokingly, lightly. They haven’t yet gotten to the part of a relationship where they can stay this deep for that long.

“You missed a spot,” Scott replies, more for something to say than because it’s true. 

Stiles grabs him in a headlock and while he pretends to squirm, Scott concentrates on all the places they touch. He doesn’t know what Stiles’ plans are at the completion of his mission. He hasn’t had the strength to ask. He worries that he’ll never see him again beyond interviews on holovision, that in the hustle and bustle of life, he’ll be relegated to some guy Stiles used to know.

*

“Houston in the blind, this is Artemis. Do you copy? Houston? Do you copy?”

Another minute, five.

“Houston this is Artemis pilot Stiles Stilinski, reporting from the wreckage of a beat-up piece of crap, do you copy?”

He’s back at his seat, wrenching at his space suit. He doesn’t give a damn if it ends up stuck to the filtering screen of the air circulation system.

“Houston, I sincerely hope you’re down there playing Galaga and that this is all a simple misunderstanding.”

He turns everything he can on and off again. Nothing happens.

“Houston, when I get back there I’m gonna kick all your asses, every single last one.”

*

The sun’s shining and Scott tilts his face up into it, loving the heat and light. Stiles’ friends chatter around him, voices too loud to fade into the background, but not so intrusive he can’t do his best to ignore them. It’s all tech-speak and while he could understand some of it if he tried, he can’t be bothered. The smell of barbecuing meat is in the air and it lulls him into a deeper sense of security. 

He thought he’d be more nervous meeting Stiles’ friends and co-workers, but he isn’t, because they either treat him like he’s part of the furniture (Lydia), seem totally eager to become his new best friend (Isaac), or flirt outrageously (Erica). They’re not nice so much as familiar and Scott feels comfortable. He doesn’t feel like he has to impress them, which is what he’d been worried about. How could he ever compare to astronauts at a NASA-run barbecue? 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, settling close and gliding his hand over his knee. Scott looks up and sideways, frown creasing his brow. “I know they can be a little intense.”

“What? No. I’m sorry, I pulled a double shift a day ago and haven’t been able to keep my eyes open for longer than an hour since. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Stiles’ expression could range anywhere from perplexed to charmed. He bites into his lower lip, blinks slowly. Scott’s mesmerized. 

“You’re not,” Stiles says, shifting in his seat and continuing when he sees Scott’s confused reaction, “Being rude.”

“I like your friends,” Scott says, playing with the hem of his shirt. Stiles seems to track his movement, eyes flicking from side to side. 

“My other friends, you mean,” Stiles says absently. 

Scott feels wrong footed again. He doesn’t know how Stiles has the power to do that. He always feels at his most ridiculous when Stiles is around, like none of his words come out correctly. He doesn’t think Stiles judges him for it, but he judges himself.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re my friend too, aren’t you?” Stiles asks, sounding halfway to devastated.

“Totally!” Scott says, moving his hands in a wide arc to demonstrate the enormity of the truth in the statement. “I think I’d even call you my best friend.”

Stiles grins and Scott’s lost in it. It’s a little smug, fairly mischievous, and very, very pretty. “Same back atcha, buddy.”

“You don’t have to say that,” Scott says, ducking his head.

Stiles’ grin fades a touch, until it looks more sincere. “But I mean it. Honestly, I don’t think I’d’ve gotten this far in my training if I hadn’t had you to come home to.”

Scott swallows thickly, wonders if the heat traveling up his neck is obvious. 

“Steaks are ready,” Stiles’ CO calls out. “Let ‘em go cold and they might turn back into cows so hustle. Move it, move it, move it.”

“Your CO is terrifying,” Scott says with a deliberate shudder, “I can’t believe you risked letting him see your junk.”

Stiles winks. “Nah, he’s a real cupcake when you get to know him.”

*

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” Stiles yells, slamming his hands on the panel. He’s still hasn’t been able to make contact. For a while there he almost thought ---

But it doesn’t matter now. The shuttle’s beyond repair, communications are down, he’s spent hours confirming it, and he’s the only one left.

“Major Tom to ground control,” he says, voice sounding harsh and choked. “I’m stepping through the door and I’m floating in the most peculiar way, and the stars look very different today.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. He won’t cry. He refuses. He ignores the sting at the back of his eyes, bites down on the sob that’s threatening to escape. 

At least he died doing something great. He lived his dream, even if it was only for a short while. He showed the Whittemores of the world that with perseverance and determination he could accomplish anything. And if it came with the ultimate price, well, at least it was one he was always willing to pay.

But that doesn’t stop him from thinking about all he’s left behind and feeling a vast emptiness not unlike the one stretching before him. 

*

Scott looks around like he’s on a whole new planet. He thinks he probably comes across as immature, but he doesn’t give a crap, because this is amazing. Stiles seems inordinately proud of himself, giving him a personally guided tour. 

“And finally, this is the water cooler we all stand around while we talk about holovision,” Stiles says with a flourish, “I haven’t been able to contribute all that frequently, as we’re about a hundred and ten years behind everyone else. Apparently the hottest show at the moment is some kind of reality TV about a fake contest named after a serial killer? We’ve been enjoying a far simpler yet nobler entertainment. And here concludes our epic journey.”

“I’ve been here ten minutes, Stiles. I know there’s more to see. You haven’t even shown me the room where they keep your gigantic ego.”

“You been writing them down? Your witty retorts? Waiting for the right time to strike?”

“Absolutely. Danny said something about putting me through a fitness test to see if I could spend time in anti-gravity?”

“It’ll ruin your perfect hair.”

“I’m shockingly okay with that. Come on, you practically begged me to visit. You should let me explore.”

They head to the gym, where Scott goes through a battery of physical tests. He’s so glad he went through the asthma cure trial when he was eleven, that it was successful, or he knows he wouldn’t be passing. And he thinks he’s passing. No one’s told him to stop. He’s startlingly aware of how fit Stiles must actually be, how much he downplays the physical requirements of his job. It makes Scott wonder the kinds of thoughts he has to keep tightly guarded, the kinds that have him acting rash and impulsive.

Scott’s sweating like a pig by the time he’s finished and he smears his hand over Stiles’ face to revel in his disgust, but Stiles doesn’t look disturbed at all --- he looks pleased. 

“Quick shower and then we’re suiting up,” Stiles says, and Scott thinks maybe he should be scared, but he trusts Stiles. 

He’s given a tank top and shorts to wear under a pair of blue coveralls and he looks up at Stiles quizzically. 

“It gets warm,” Stiles says. “I’ve done this naked, remember?”

Anti-gravity is weird. There are other ways to describe it, more elegant and intelligent ways, but weird about covers it. Scott thought everything would be in slow motion, because it looks like it is in old videos, both fact and fiction, but it isn’t. His hand chops through the air at speed. Stiles explains that you have to be careful in how you move so you don’t injure yourself or inadvertently break equipment, but if anything it’s possible to move quicker because of a lack of friction. 

They both giggle at the word ‘friction’, what can Scott say, they’re twelve.

Scott somersaults with one of Stiles’ hands at his back and feels well and truly weightless, like he hasn’t a care in the world. 

“Wait, wait, wait, lemme get a wet cloth, you have to see this in person,” Stiles says, jetting off the wall. 

Scott hovers, kicks his feet up again and unashamedly enjoys himself. 

*

He’s gotten to the point where he’s caught up in the beauty of space. Hey, no one could ever say that Stiles Stilinski isn’t as figurative as he is literal. 

The shuttle’s rotated enough that he’s facing Earth. It’s surreal, a big blue marble seemingly suspended in nothing at all. It’s bizarre to think that there are billions of people down there, every single one of them with their own internal worlds. No one thinks exactly the same, no one feels exactly the same, no one knows exactly the same as any other person and it’s --- it’s incredible. 

And that’s just humanity. Small, fickle, but ultimately irreplaceable people. What about the rest of the animal world, what about the plants, what about the rocks? What about the things that can’t be classified?

It’s possible he’s becoming delirious.

*

They move onto later space-themed shows, ones that are more morally ambiguous, less campy and altogether less fun; the 2030 version of _Farscape_ , _By the Victors_ , _Traveler in Time_ , and the heart-and-groundbreaking _Challenger_. They immerse themselves in the shows’ holographic worlds. 

Their real life worlds also become more entangled. Lydia drops by more frequently, Scott finds himself getting into increasingly long and rambling video chats with Isaac, and his mom has started to refer to Stiles as her second son. Scott even invites Derek over a couple of times, although it’s always simultaneously risky and hilarious.

Derek’s always considered himself Scott’s protective big brother --- he was one of the first doctors to treat him like an actual human being, and showed him the ropes when he was new --- so it shouldn’t be a surprise that he gives Stiles a full interrogation, but it still is, because Scott always also thought he was relatively sane. Turns out, not so much. 

Stiles, for his part, seems infinitely amused. 

“If you weren’t an astronaut, what would you be?”

“Unemployed.”

“Hypothetically.”

“Why deal with hypotheticals when reality beckons?”

“Indulge me.”

“If I couldn’t be an astronaut, I’d be a cosmonaut.”

Derek doesn’t look impressed. He looks the absolute opposite of impressed. Scott hangs his head and suppresses his laughter.

Every time they hang out it’s the same. Stiles delights in winding Derek up and Derek delights in playing the straight man. Scott has no doubts that Derek’s willingly going along with it now, there’s no way he’s that dense. Stiles and Derek do genuinely rile one another once or twice, but Scott’s always able to mediate between them. 

It’s kind of great.

*

The thing is, he’s never been a quitter. He’s had to make readjustments sometimes, like when he was in love with Lydia and thought she’d fall in love with him too. He’d had to learn to accept that she did love him, but not in the way he wanted and that was okay, what they had was still meaningful. But he’d never given up outright, he’d always found an alternate plan.

So that’s what he’s doing. He figures if he can get the burners going for a short, well-placed burst he can get closer to the ISS. From there, he should be able to establish contact somehow. He’s been dicking around with the radio and he thinks it’s transmitting, but only within a severely limited radius, hence no response from Houston. 

So this is the plan. If he’s going down, he’s going down fighting. He flicks all the relevant switches to the on position with a hasty scratch of his fingers, butts into the console with a whack for good measure.

“Come on, you piece of shit. We can do this.”

*

They have a party. It’s loud and it’s raucous and Scott’s disturbed to see Erica and Derek cozying up together on his couch.

Even surrounded by all their friends Scott and Stiles gravitate toward each other. When Scott points this out as a quiet aside, Stiles says it’s a survival instinct. Scott tries not to take that negatively. It’s supposed to be positive, he thinks; Stiles sees him as safe. That’s a good thing. But in his less self-assured moments he thinks it’s the only reason Stiles would want to spend time with him. 

It makes him feel itchy, feel trapped. He should tell Stiles the truth, admit that he loves his friendship but that he wants --- he wants to be able to hold Stiles and be held, to give him the support and comfort he needs. 

He also wants to fuck. He’s sure they’d be hot together. Scott can’t make himself feel guilty over imagining it; the tight, hot press of their bodies, the gasps and groans. He’s constantly aware of Stiles, now, always feels a frisson of expectation at his touch.

*

They always used to refer to the engine as an electro-plasma system and would joke that they needed dilithium crystals. The truth is that power comes from converting compacted waste cells into energy. There’s plenty of fuel, but the conversion hardware is fucked. Stiles thinks he can set off one last surge of power if he creates a tiny explosion, it’s just all about timing. 

If he gets it wrong, he’s toast. Explosions in contained spaces are always potentially life-threatening and this is no exception. There’s the very real possibility he’d ignite the atmosphere within the shuttle and when that happens, things get crispified. It happened during simulation once. He couldn’t look at grilled cheese for a month. 

He also has to make it back to the navigation controls in time to direct the shuttle, because auto-pilot is down and he’s facing about nine degrees in the wrong direction. 

Stiles tests the journey a couple times, streamlining his body. He’s gotten knocked on the head a couple times in the past, smacked his elbow and dislocated his shoulder. He doesn’t want to screw up his one chance because he’s lacking in coordination.

*

Stiles comes sliding into the living room. Scott pauses the holofile, waiting patiently. He’s learned that Stiles always wants a captive audience.

“Oh my God, I can’t apologize enough, but I think I destroyed the coffeemaker.”

Scott stands as Stiles gestures and follows him into the kitchen. “In what way?”

“In the way that steam is billowing out a mile a minute and there’s a persistent smell of burnt coffee and it’s making super weird bleep bloop noises.”

“I can see, smell and hear that. I meant how did you destroy it? How do you know it didn’t break down by itself?”

Stiles winces. “Ah, well, see, I was trying to improve its efficacy and may have misjudged a smidgen.” He presses his index finger and thumb together and Scott’s never felt more inclined to emit a high-pitched cooing sound.

“All right,” he says instead.

Stiles looks unsure. He’s never looked like that before, always appears supremely confident. “You’re not mad?”

“My mom always said to me that things go wrong, mistakes are made, but everything’s fixable. I think in this case she’d insist that she means metaphorically and she wants to see a new coffeemaker on this countertop tomorrow. I would concur.”

“I can do that. Absolutely!” Stiles says, rocking awkwardly from foot to foot as he detaches the coffeemaker from its solar generator and cleans up the mess. 

“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” Scott asks, “Launch is three weeks away.”

“Is it, really? I never would’ve known.” Stiles hunches his shoulders, sucks in an obvious, heaving breath. “I’m, like, shitting myself.”

Scott’s always wary about being too handsy, but he doesn’t think Stiles would mind under the circumstances. He rubs his hands up over his back, squeezes his shoulder. Stiles is solid and warm under his fingers and Scott realizes with startling clarity that he always wants to be permitted to touch him like this, always wants to have this connection. 

“You’re going to be amazing,” he says, because it’s true.

“You’re just saying that to comfort me,” Stiles says, sighing.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it’s a lie.”

*

He thinks about how he’d asked Lydia to contact Scott as well as his dad if anything went wrong. How she’d given him a knowing look, patted him on the upper arm and said she’d draw on her considerable powers of persuasion to insure they remained informed. 

It’d been a farthest of stretches when he’d asked. It’d never seriously occurred to him that things could spiral so out of control. 

He wonders if they’re all at the base, waiting. If Scott’s amidst the mad scramble of the Houston techs. If his dad’s ordering anyone and everyone around. He thinks it’s been a day since the initial collision, it feels like it has, but he hasn’t been conscious the entire time and everything seems slower in the silence of space.

Stiles examines his squib, gnaws on his lower lip as he measures out his C4. 

*

His cell phone rings in the middle of the night. He squints at the screen to see Lydia’s picture. He slides to accept the call. He’s already feeling a nervous bubbling inside his stomach that he can’t explain beyond a whole-bodied awareness that this is strange, that it doesn’t follow any protocols he can think of.

“Is everything okay?”

“Scott, something happened. You need to get down here right away.”

His bike won’t start until he kicks it. Scott tamps down on the anxiety welling inside. Maybe Stiles had been trying to get a message to him. Something stupid and innocuous and whimsical.

But Lydia sounded like she’d been crying and he couldn’t imagine Stiles would be inconsiderate enough to drag him out of bed. So perhaps there’s a minor malfunction, or they want nursing advice and figured it’d be better coming from someone they know, rather than the highly paid medical experts they no doubt have on payroll.

No excuses Scott can come up with suffice. He abuses the speed limit, watches the road streak by. When he’s at the security gate he fumbles with his pass. Lydia’s waiting for him and yes, her eyes are red-rimmed, her make-up clearly reapplied. 

“How bad is it?”

“Catastrophic.”

*

Stiles gets everything organized. 

Time is relatively meaningless here, so he doesn’t know how long he spends doing it. He doesn’t know how long he’s there replaying conversations and editing their endings, but he thinks it’s _a while_. He doesn’t know why he let fear consume him, why he was so unwilling to take the chance. Actually, that’s a lie. He does know why. He’d thought he had unlimited opportunities. 

He always thought seize the day attitudes were best relegated to poetry and Kesha songs. That he could bide his time and take the chance when he felt absolutely sure of the outcome. But he was foolish and short sighted, and now he’s stuck here in the middle of space in love with someone who’ll never know.

He’ll never know how Scott would have reacted. Whether his eyes would go warm and inviting, his hands sliding over Stiles’ as he admitted he felt the same way. Whether he’d blink a few times, wet his lips and ask if he was serious. Whether he’d get a haunted, worried expression and avoid Stiles’ eyes as he stammered out that he was flattered. It could be all or none of these and Stiles has no clue. 

He imagines the different scenarios and voices them, making his tone go soft and sweet when he’s being Scott. It breaks when he says, “I know,” throat constricting tightly and head pounding with the rush of blood.

Stiles has one thought on his mind – he’s going home again. He’s going home to his dad, to his friends, to his life. He’s going home to Scott.

*

Scott sits, numb. He’s not actually allowed in the command center, unlike Stiles’ dad. He’s relegated to an offshoot area that’s eerily reminiscent of a hospital waiting room. A bank of monitors, being used as an homage to original space missions, shows the 24 hour news cycle. Or rather, the 24 hour complete lack of news cycle. 

No news is better than bad news, he supposes. He goes over the mantra he’s been chanting incessantly since he was told. There’ve been survivors from these kinds of failures before. And maybe things weren’t as damaged as NASA thought. They’d lost contact early on after the debris shower. Plus, Stiles is ingenious and Erica resourceful. Isaac’s got all the determination in the world. There’s still hope.

And when Stiles is back, Scott will tell him how he feels --- how he goes to sleep at night thinking about his smile, how he wakes up in the morning smiling because he’s still thinking about him. He’ll tell him what he means, because even if Stiles could never feel the same way, it’s important he knows, that he matters. Scott will put his heart on his sleeve, tear it off and hand it over. 

Lydia sits next to him, passes over a coffee. Scott takes a grateful sip and consciously attempts to loosen his body. He’s been making himself smaller with each passing hour, arms drawing tight, head ducking down. 

“The ISS has an experimental pod they’re gonna try and send,” Lydia says. “We didn’t think it was operational yet, but the Russian and Canadian engineers have gotten involved. They think it’ll be ready in two hours.”

“You don’t sound overwhelmingly optimistic.”

“I need to be a realist.”

“You think they’re dead.”

Lydia presses her lips together, smooths down her skirt. “I’ve prepared myself for the eventuality. I think you should too.”

*

Stiles sucks in the deepest of breaths. He’s in his space suit again, constrictingly confined. But strangely safe, too. If he’s going to die, he’s going to die with dignity. 

He has one shot. One chance. If he fails, that’s it, but he has to _try_.

Stiles scrunches his eyes shut, sets everything into motion, and he’s terrified, but he’s optimistic. He has no choice but to hope.

*

Wind is battering against the windows, rattling the panes. It’s nasty out there right now, rain coming down like sheets of glass and an occasional flash of lightning that rends the sky in two. It makes him feel small, makes him all too aware that he’s a speck of dust in relation to the universe, makes him think about Stiles forever being lost in space.

Scott sits on his couch, rubs the palms of his hands into his eyes. He was at the base earlier, but they turned him away. Lydia said that if they knew anything at all she’d call. She’d been rushed off her feet, but he’s sure she meant it. He thinks the ISS pod would have made it to the shuttle by now. They would have had time to explore the wreckage. 

There’s a crash and a bang outside and then furious knocking. Scott sucks in a deep breath, sets his shoulders and opens the door. He only has one question on his mind.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah, Scotty.”


End file.
